


Cleaning Up

by Avery11



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: 12 Days of Christmas, Down the Chimney Affair 2014, M/M, Slash, dtc, dtc11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 08:55:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2767211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avery11/pseuds/Avery11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas dinner is over, but the cleanup has just begun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cleaning Up

**Down The Chimney Affair** gift for Spikesgirl58

 **Prompts** : slashy, sexy, funny, Twelve Days of Christmas

 

 

Napoleon gathered up another armful of wrapping paper and ribbon, and stuffed the mess into a garbage bag for disposal. He straightened, easing the kink in his back, and took a moment to admire the Christmas tree, a fat, double-needled balsam he and Illya had picked out together at a tree farm on Long Island.

He examined the branches, searching out his favorite ornaments – the hand-painted angel that had been his mother's favorite; a glass knight that Aunt Amy had brought back from her travels one year --“Sir Gallivant,” she called him; and the Russian _Ded Moroz_ Illya had given him the year they first professed their love for one another. The white twinkle lights were a nice touch, too, although Illya insisted that he liked their old set of bubble lights better. This, from a man who professed not to care about holidays. Napoleon had to smile.

Across the room, Illya lounged on the sofa, clad in his pajama bottoms and wrapped in a mountain of blankets borrowed from their bedroom. His eyes were closed in post-prandial satisfaction. Napoleon watched the rise and fall of the slender chest – tangible proof of life – and felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude. There had been too many near-misses recently. Too many close calls.

“Hey, blondie, a little help over here?”

“Shhh.”

“Ah, so I was right – you're playing possum again. Come on, partner. Up and at 'em. There's work to be done.”

“Hush, _lyubimy'i_. You are interrupting a lovely dream _._ Go away and let me finish.”

“I knew we should have cleaned up the mess before dinner. You're useless once the tryptophan kicks in.”

Illya cracked open an eye. “For your information, I am endeavoring to enjoy a time-honored American holiday tradition.”

“Oh, really? And which one is that, pray tell? The food coma?”

“A little sympathy, if you please. In case you have forgotten, a few Christmases ago I was hanging by my ankles in the Partridges' South American satrapy. Last year it was their little fiefdom in the Cotswalds. And a month ago I was, yet again, their unhappy guest of honor, tied up and left to drown in a cow tunnel under the Hudson River.”

Napoleon pushed the cascade of images from his mind. _Illya was safe. Safe._ “They do seem to have it in for you.”

“In any event,” Illya smiled sweetly, “I am merely following doctors' orders, and catching up on my sleep.”

“Since when have you ever 'followed doctors' orders'?”

He shrugged. “There is always a first time.”

“I'll be sure to let Dr. Rousseau know you were a good little agent. Now climb off that sofa and help me straighten up.”

“Why? The trash is not going anywhere.”

“I'll tell you 'why!' For your information, _mon coeur_ , that _kamikaze_ cat of yours has spent the past hour shredding all the leftover wrapping paper. The apartment looks like a ticker tape parade came through.”

“Jellyroll was merely expressing his feline 'good cheer.' Besides, he is your cat, too, in case you have forgotten.”

"And this penthouse is your home now, so pitch in and help me clean it up."

"No one should have to work on Christmas Day," the Russian replied piously.

Napoleon counted to ten.

“However,” Illya purred, “I  _might_ be willing to negotiate.”

 _Oh, that lovely voice!_ “I'm listening.”

“Let me sleep, and I will tell you a secret.”

Napoleon's radar pinged. “What sort of 'secret?'”

“A juicy one. Interested?”

Napoleon knew his partner well enough to suspect he was being conned. Still, heart overruled head where Illya was concerned. “Let's say I'm mildly intrigued.”

“Of course you are.” Illya burrowed into the blankets, and pulled a pillow over his head. “It will be worth the wait,” his muffled voice promised.

“Ill- _ya_!”

The lump under the covers began to snore softly.

Napoleon tugged the blanket down again. “If you think you're getting away with this, _mon coeur,_ think again.”

Illya reemerged with a sigh. “You really are not going to let me sleep, are you?”

“Not a chance. 'I must be cruel, only to be kind: Thus bad begins and worse remains behind.'”

“No wonder poor Hamlet was so conflicted.” He rolled over with a groan. “If I give you a hint, will that suffice?”

“You'll have to pay to play.”

“Oh, very well.” Illya wriggled into a sitting position. He yawned, rolled his shoulders, massaged away an imaginary kink.

“Quit stalling.”

”Spoilsport." He thrust a hand through his sleep-tousled hair, and Napoleon's heart melted at the sight. "It was something Mr. Waverly told me as we were leaving work last Friday. A new development in the war against THRUSH.”

Now _that_ was interesting. “What 'new development?' And why haven't I heard anything about it? Come on, Illya, you've got to give me more than that.”

The Russian's smile was canny. “Do I get my nap?”

 _Checkmate._ “Fine. Sleep until New Year's Day if you want. Now spill.”

“And you will do the dishes?”

“Don't push your luck.”

Illya reached under the coffee table, and withdrew a small box wrapped in festive holiday paper. _Merry Christmas, lyubimy'i,_ the tag read. He placed it into Napoleon's hands.

“What's this?”

“Your hint.”

Napoleon stared at the neatly wrapped package, and realization set in. “You sneaky Russian! You had this planned all along!”

Illya shrugged. “Of course.”

He tore off the wrapping paper, and opened the box. His brows knitted in puzzlement.

There, nestled amid layers of pale green tissue paper, was a ceramic ornament depicting _The Twelve Days of Christmas._ The various figures were hand-painted, the details accented in gold leaf. Napoleon lifted the ornament from the box, turning it this way and that. He examined it from every angle, looking for a clue to its meaning. There was nothing. “Uh, thanks, it's very pretty.”

“You might want to read the card.”

“Card?” He dug into the cloud of green tissue, and discovered an embossed Christmas card buried at the bottom of the box.

“ _On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Twelve drummers drumming, Eleven pipers piping,_  
_Ten lords a-leaping, Nine ladies dancing,_  
_Eight maids a-milking, Seven swans a-swimming,_  
_Six geese a-laying, five golden rings,_  
_Four colley birds..."_

“This is sweet, Illyushka, but I don't get it. What does a Christmas ornament have to do with the war against THRUSH? Is there a secret plan to drum them to death?” 

“Keep reading.” 

He complied with a sigh. “ _Four colley birds, Three French hens, Two turtledoves –_ _And two Partridges in UNCLE custody!_ ” 

Napoleon's legs turned to jelly. He sat down on the edge of the sofa, shaking with surprise and relief. “Really?” 

“Really. April and Mark caught up with Emory and Edith Partridge a week ago – in an orchard in the south of France, if you can believe it.” 

“'A partridge, caught in an actual pear tree?' You're kidding! Fate couldn't possibly be that kind to us.” 

Illya smiled. “I knew you would appreciate the irony. Husband and wife are currently in an UNCLE holding cell, singing like frightened little THRUSHbirds. I fear their compatriots will not look so favorably upon them in the future.” 

Napoleon sat back, feeling a bit dazed. “Honestly, I don't know whether to be happy they're in custody, or sorry those nutcases are still alive.” 

“Does it matter?” 

“No,” Napoleon answered slowly. “I suppose not.” 

“I am told that they led April and Mark a merry chase. Toward the end, they sought refuge in a barn outside the village of Faurs le Château, but they were outed by some noisy French hens - _poulets de bresse_ , no doubt - and a flock of particularly nasty geese.” 

“Serves them right! But –” He frowned. “Why wasn't I informed of the capture? Waverly didn't mention a word at the weekly briefing.” 

“I asked him not to. I wanted to give you the news myself.” Illya smiled. “I thought it would make a nice Christmas present.” 

“”Nice?' It's fantastic! When I think of what those crazy bastards did to you –” He stopped himself. No need to dwell on the past. “It'll be a refreshing change, starting the new year without The Snob and The Sadist coming after us.” 

“They _were_ getting rather tiresome.” 

Napoleon snorted. “That's one word for it.” He snuggled into the curl of Illya's arm, feeling immensely grateful to have him home, alive and whole. “Now that you've sprung your little surprise, _mon coeur_ , I imagine you'll want to get back to your snoozing.” 

“That was our agreement.” 

“Ah, well, I suppose a bargain is a bargain.” He placed a tender kiss on the Russian's full lips, felt them soften beneath his own. “Far be it from me to disturb your beauty rest -"

The lips curled up in a smile. “Why do I get the feeling you have something other than 'rest' in mind?” 

"Who, me?" Napoleon's hand slipped under the blankets, nails grazing across warm skin, tracing the landscape of old scars. 

“Mmm. That feels nice.” 

“Just the thing to help you sleep.” The fingers found a nipple, teased it erect. 

Illya's lips parted in a sigh. “A little lower, if you please.” 

“Here?” The fingers slid downward, slipping beneath the waistband of Illya's pajamas. 

“Lower.” 

The hand brushed across Illya's belly. “Am I getting warm?” 

“I know _I_ am.” He shifted his body to give Napoleon greater access. 

“Naturally, I would hate to start something –” Napoleon traced the trembling inside of a thigh. “– that you were too tired to finish.” 

“An inch to the right, and you will see that I am wide awake.” 

A warm hand encircled Illya's cock, fondled the swollen flesh. “You mean here?” 

A gasp. _“Da.”_  

“Not so sleepy after all, _mon coeur_?” 

Illya licked his lips. “Not a bit.” 

Fingers brushed the sensitive tip of the glans, and Illya's hips bucked. Napoleon stroked the thick organ from base to tip, and watched a rosy flush spread up Illya's neck, inflaming his cheeks. His legs splayed in wanton invitation.

“Ohh, _da..."_

"You like that, don't you?" 

Illya managed a nod. His cock swelled with need.

A second hand reached down to cup Illya's balls. “Mmm, armed and dangerous, I see.” 

“A little less talk.” He thrust against the hand. 

"Horny, are we?" Napoleon chuckled. "Who knew tryptophan could be such an aphrodesiac?" He began to pump the length of Illya's erection, varying the rhythm and pressure along the shaft.  His mouth busied itself by sucking on the hollow curve of Illya's throat.

" _Bystreye –ya hochu –_ ” 

He obliged by increasing the speed. Illya groaned in pleasure.

"Do you like that, _mon coeur?_ "

“Ohh, _imejte men'a!”_  

"I'll take that as a 'yes.'"

Illya was panting now. His eyes were glazed, his body bathed in sweat. He bit his lip in concentration, arching upward like a coiled spring as orgasm approached. 

The hand withdrew. “Then again, I really should start on those dirty dishes –” 

Illya's eyes flew open. _“Chto –? Nyet!_ ” 

“I've been thinking –” 

“Think later.” He reached down to reposition the hand, but Napoleon caught him by the wrist, and pulled him away. 

“As I was saying – I think it's time we renegotiated our agreement.” 

“Re...re..?” He stared up at Napoleon without comprehension. 

“Mm-hmm. It appears –” A single finger drifted down the length of Illya's twitching shaft. “– that the balance of power has shifted.” 

Illya groaned desperately.  

"Yes indeed-y.” Napoleon trailed a string of kisses down Illya's neck, and watched the little goosebumps form. “I do believe have you right where I want you.” 

Sweat beaded on Illya's upper lip.

He laved the sensitive skin around Illya's ear, smiled when the Russian moaned softly. “Now then, let's discuss my terms.” 

Illya gasped. “Can't we discuss them later?” 

“Nope. Now.”

“ _Svoloch! Bespechnyj, vysokomernyj mudak! Vy synsuka!”_  

“Tsk, tsk. Such language. And from a Cambridge man, too.” His lips fastened around a nipple. “New arrangement: You do the dishes –” He sucked, and Illya nearly levitated off the couch. “– and I'll do you.” 

"This is blackmail!"

Napoleon shrugged. “I prefer to think of it as 'adjusting for inflation.'” He turned his attention to the other nipple. 

Illya squirmed helplessly beneath Napoleon's body. “Y-you are...a devious man.” 

The senior agent nodded agreeably. “I am, aren't I? Then again, I learned from a Russian master. Now about those dishes –” 

“Fine! Anything!” Illya growled through clenched teeth. “ Just –! Oh, _pazhaluysta!_ ” His hips thrust upward. 

"And you'll take out the trash?"

"Alright! The trash, too, you -!" _  
_

"Ah-ah-ah. Manners, _mon coeur_." His fingers trailed along the sensitive junction of Illya's buttocks. “So - do we have an agreement?” 

"Yes! Yes! Please -!” Illya's eyes widened in sudden panic. “Y-you are not going to make me do the dishes _n-now,_ are you??” 

Napoleon grinned. “Well, maybe not _right_ now.” His lips descended. 

*/*/*/

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
